


get right where I belong

by limned



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Consent Issues, Established Relationship, F/M, Post-Mission, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 20:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10861596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limned/pseuds/limned
Summary: Clint is still amazed by the number of people who ask him about what Natasha does when she’s undercover.





	get right where I belong

Clint is still amazed by the number of people who ask him about what Natasha does when she’s undercover.

They rarely say it outright but what they mean is: _Does she really have to fuck them?_

At this point, he’s almost glad the subject exists. It gives him an incredibly quick and easy standard for determining whether somebody is an asshole. He understands why people wonder; he understands basic human curiosity. He doesn’t understand the stunning lack of manners that makes them think it’s okay to grill _him_ on the subject. For a long time he would get pissed off, stare them down until they backed away.

Now he just offers a sarcastic smile and says, “Why don’t you ask her? That would go well.”

It’s the most fun when Natasha is nearby and he can say it very loudly.

.

Bishkek runs so smooth and successful that the debrief is quick. Natasha infiltrated through a junior defense minister who spent three weeks displaying her at lavish parties before they intercepted the plutonium shipment and eliminated the major players with no complications. Fury is so pleased that he says, “Out _standing_ ,” and genuinely beams at them for almost two seconds before checking himself. It’s more than a little frightening, but Clint can handle it, because ten minutes later the whole team is awarded a full week of comp time for the good work.

Fury is also smart enough to recognize the bubble of space that Natasha has been maintaining since they redeployed. He claps Clint and two other agents on the back as they walk out but only says, “Excellent job, Romanoff,” and keeps his distance.

.

Like always, he chooses a table with a good view of both the door and the room at large. Although he would click to her arrival even if he couldn’t see the door, when most of the eyes in the bar swivel toward it.

He’s seen how Natasha can fade into the background when she needs to. The right combination of unremarkable clothes, makeup, posture, movement: she can do it with unbelievable effectiveness, turn herself into visual white noise and nearly disappear from most people’s active notice. But if she doesn’t exert that effort, she’s always going to draw eyes. This afternoon she’s only wearing her usual for casual off-duty, jeans and fitted t-shirt and leather jacket, and she’s still the most beautiful woman in the entire borough.

Clint admits he might be a little biased, but he has a few tables of transfixed Fordham grad students to back him up.

Natasha heads straight for him —clocked him from outside, obviously —and puts one hand around the back of his neck as she leans down. The kiss isn’t quick. She slides her tongue carefully along the inside of his bottom lip, and she’s already smiling a little when she pulls away. “Smithwick’s?”

“That okay?”

“Acceptable,” she says, and brushes a lighter kiss on his lips before heading to the bar.

He feels easier already. She always has beer with him on these days, always the same kind that he drinks because she wants them to taste the same. He figured it out by the second time and started trying to pick something she’d like, or at least tolerate, since beer wasn’t her usual choice.

And if she’s smiling this soon, none of it was that bad.

She comes back with her own pint and a fresh one for him and moves her chair closer before sitting down. They clink glasses and drink deep, and she pushes her shoulder into him, her hand resting firmly on his arm.

.

He never asks her. If she wants to tell him what happened, she will. If she doesn’t want to tell him, he doesn’t need to know. It’s pretty simple.

.

Natasha finds calm places for this: hotel bars, sedate neighborhood taverns, upscale sports bars between playoff seasons. Always somewhere without much noise where the bartenders will immediately deal with misbehavior. She gets enough drama from strangers on the job. There’s no guarantee that an overly optimistic guy won’t hit on her while he’s in the bathroom, but it’s less likely in these places, and the attention doesn’t persist when Clint comes back.

Nobody has ever bothered them on these days when they’re sitting together. He knows exactly what they look like to an outsider, how solidly _together_ , the absolutely clear possessiveness in how Natasha touches him. She wraps her hand around his elbow or rubs her palm slowly over his shoulder or traces fingertips across his wrist, and she always kisses him before going to the bar for more pints.

His hands stay on the table or on his drink. He learned this part fast, halfway through the first time. He kisses her back, he moves into whatever touch she gives him, but he doesn’t initiate.

He’s at the bathroom sinks when one of the Fordham grad students shoots him a tentative grin in the mirror and says, “You lucky motherfucker,” and Clint can’t help a quick laugh. “Thanks,” he says, and doesn’t feel guilty about it because this kid has no idea: he’s lucky in about a thousand ways that have nothing to do with Natasha being the hottest girl in the bar.

.

It’s simple. This helps her slough off the mission, makes her feel steady. Touching him and owning him in public, her choice, reinforcing that it’s only ever what she wants to do.

.

The light has gone soft and gray in the street when she calls it after his fifth pint and her fourth. Clint feels himself flush from more than the alcohol when she runs her hand along his thigh, presses her lips briefly under his ear, and says, “You ready?”

“Always,” he says automatically. He’s probably smiling wide and way too silly when she laughs against his throat.

“Come on,” Natasha says, and he gets up and follows her out to the street, her hand hooked into his jacket and tugging him easily along behind her.


End file.
